The Kick Inside
by Cerulean Pen
Summary: "Girls like me don't last long."/ Contains heavy Pinecest, mentions of sex, and suicide.


The Kick Inside

Summary: "Girls like me don't last long."/ Contains heavy Pinecest, mentions of sex, and suicide.

English Angst/Romance Rated: T Chapters:1 Words: Dipper P. & Mabel P.

**a/n: **A few warnings: this is Pinecest, it contains sexual content, and suicide. And. It. Is. Sad. I should be writing more for "A Day In The Life", but I recently discovered Pinecest tumblr and I HAD to write something. Inspired by the Kate Bush song, "The Kick Inside". Enjoy… or, just read.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." She examines her reflection in the rearview mirror, instantly recoiling at the hideous sight. Ponds of darkness trapped beneath her eyes, ghost-white pallor, curls dull and ruffled by some invisible hand. She has the urge to sleep, to reach a place where her life isn't bound to reality and she can breathe without being under the oppressive burden of exhaustion. Secrets threaten to spill from her strawberry lips. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"You just seem sad," he observes quietly, gaze fixated on the road sprawling out before them. She wishes she could lob herself into his arms, grip his shoulders, weeping, shrieking, apologizing. Instead, she struggles to flex her mouth into a semblance of a grin, hoping she'll be able to escape the discussion with a halfhearted excuse.

"I'm fine, Dipping Sauce, just a little tired. I'm okay." The nighttime void seems to pressing in on the windows, drowning them in deep space. She fiddles anxiously with the frayed edge of her fuchsia sweater, shivering in spite of the heat elicited by the dashboard vents. It's probably sweltering to him, but he's far too considerate to adjust the temperature. When they arrive back home, she'll have to compensate for it. They make up for everything, nowadays.

"Okay, just making sure." That hand creeps shyly up her knee, fingers tenderly massaging the exposed flesh, but afraid to cross the boundary of her skirt again. She almost encourages him to grow feisty and trespass wherever he pleases, but it's late and he's driving. So, she lays her head on his shoulder, which hasn't become much broader since they were underdeveloped twelve-year-olds. She doesn't mind. He's adorable without being buried under stretches of muscles and ligaments.

The maroon truck, a gift for their sixteenth birthday, sputters down the road they have memorized. All roads lead back home. Unfortunately, there are countless other places she would rather be, such as right here, his hand preventing her from escaping the tether of gravity. Maybe if she dozed off, he'd carry her inside, sneaking past their parents on the leather loveseat. Laying her gently on his bed… Sleeping Beauty to awoken with a kiss…

No. She shakes her head, a hard snap to purge her mind of such childish fantasies. A silly dream for a silly girl.

They creep into the driveway around midnight, engine wheezing like a croup-inflicted child. The truck is on its last legs, but neither could bare to part with it: you always form a bond with that first car, motivating you to experiment with duct tape and chewing gum until only rubble remains. He kisses her cheek affectionately, wishing the lovely spots of color would return to her pallid visage. "Mabel…" Heat boiled behind her eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I'm okay, I promise," she insists; her faltering voice absolutely disgusts her. He strokes her neck for a moment, her pulse frenetic beneath his fingertips. Gazes meet, him attempting to unlock her eyes and discover the secrets, like handfuls of worms, writhing in her skull. Maybe it's the late hour, or the slight pout quivering on her lips, but he doesn't struggle to squeak past her barriers.

"Okay. Just remember that you can tell me anything." _But I can't, _she thinks miserably. The Wish surfaces again: _I wish we hadn't been born together. _She almost suggests that they pull back onto the road and race the sun, discover an oasis, a paradise of their own where they won't be afraid to hold hands and press lips and jostle collarbones. But, there is no fight left in her fractured shell, so she allows him to slip out of her fingers.

They stand together under the eerie ponds of luminescence cast by the iron street lamps, their childhood home seeming a strange and unfeeling place. She's afraid. He is too, although to a lesser degree, because he has trained himself to masquerade his fear, for her sake. Just like thunderstorms, all those years. He banished the primal urge to hide whenever a monsoon hit, so he could comfort her. Anything in the world for her. Anything.

Soundlessly, they slip through the garage, peering around every corner. Their parents have been rather suspicious lately, exchanging odd glances, asking a variety of questions whenever they returned home from even the most trivial of errands. One day, they would run away without looking back, but until then, they had to maintain the façade. The occasional insult, a halfhearted spat over something idiotic, like the bathroom towels or a phone call. Just to keep the mask from slipping a little longer.

Thankfully, their parents have retired to bed. He says he has to shower and kisses her passionately at the end of the corridor, hand cupping her soft jaw line. "I'll be here," he whispers, "I'll be here in just a few minutes."

She hums something in reply, too afraid to loosen the strings on her mouth. After the heated moment draws to a close, she shivers in the drafty hallway. It's too cold. She's always cold. Even the sparks from their moments shared together can't entirely melt the ice blooming on her insides.

The floorboards creak as she trudges back to her bedroom, which is still the dream of a twelve-year-old. Glitter and yarn and stuffed animals and superstar posters and trashy novels and sweaters and satin and bubblegum and scrapbooks. She still adores it, but she feels impure around the innocence, afraid to touch and defile the uncorrupted marvel of it all.

She scoops up a stuffed tiger, hugging him protectively to her chest. A present for her seventh birthday. She couldn't sleep without him for three and a half years. Good years. When things were ordinary and safe. With a defeated sigh, she tossed herself onto the bed before remembering the precious bundle she was toting and adjusted herself accordingly.

Things weren't always this way. Before, they were simply twins, closer than close, best friends that could share everything. The awkward stage imposed a threat, but the phase only knitted them together further. And the night… the winter night, crawling into his bed… her heart fluttering like a caged hummingbird. The taste of forbidden fruit and discovering, oh God, she _loved her brother. _

_Discovering there was no guilt in loving him._

_Until now. _She eyes the picture window, taking measurements, even though that's not really her department. Second floor. Ivy crawling up the trellis. Driveway below. She starts to chew a chocolate curl anxiously, an old habit that will die hard.

He shouldn't have to live with the shame. He has potential, a future being mapped out before him with every passing second. College, apartment, internship, jobs, moving up, marriage, children, income, love. He had promised her enthusiastically, eyes bright and words quick, she would become a crucial piece of it all. She would, she would… if it weren't for the secret. The horrible secret, searing and boiling inside of her. Festering… _growing…_

The window interests her immensely. She once jumped off the garage roof, inspired partly by a dare and, secretly, by her own desire to fly. Yeah, easy to fly with a broken arm. Even then though, she had landed in the flower beds, spared by the yielding earth. What if?

She snaps up abruptly, striding over and unlatching the hook, throwing the window open. A timid breeze diffuses the fragrance of honeysuckle, gasoline, and the simmering remains of a barbeque. She inhales deeply, hands clasped together at the neck of her dragonfly sweater. Such a beautiful night… such a beautiful night…

Too anesthetized by the tantalizing aromas to feel qualms at the action, she swung her thin legs over the sill, almost perching on the whipcord-thin boundary between substance and void. It will be painless. It will be painless, right? There's already a raw agony tearing at her heart, the guilt, the guilt of leaving him behind. But, she can't bear to stay behind anymore.

"I wouldn't even know what to name it," she murmurs to the wind, trembling on the ledge. "I wouldn't know what to name it, Dipper." She inhales, exhales, her mind finally realizes what she plans to execute and strives to dissuade her. But, she acts, and then she is _down. _Everything is constantly falling. _Gravity falls, _she thinks deliriously, _gravity falls down._ It isn't a mistake. She'll go peacefully.

_Because there's no way she can go on living knowing she's carrying her brother's child._

**a/n: **Angst. Angst and more angst. So, this was more of a writing exercise (like "The Waiting Game") and not so proud of what was done here, so… excuse the horrible-ness. Also an obsession with "The Kick Inside". Listen to it. All right, see you guys.


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